Sacred Bride

by Sacred Bride (retail) (epub)

  Tantalus himself tops the cliff and strides forward to stand in front of his remaining men, removing his helmet to kiss his young wife, and to stroke the hair of his, now silent, baby. He’s a darkly handsome man twice her age, with luxuriant deep brown hair and a shapely jaw.

  ‘You abducted my lawful wife,’ he accuses us. ‘You endangered her and our child. You desecrated the sacred rites of Artemis; and you have slain two of the greatest heroes of our lands, Atalanta and Hippomenes, whose names shall live long in our tales while you’re rotting in Tartarus. I will give you the lingering, agonised death your crimes have earned.’

  ‘Aye,’ his men growl. ‘Let’s make these bastards scream.’

  Even if we could run, our escape route has been cut off, and we’re all too exhausted anyway. And I have no doubt he means every word he says.

  I reverse the grip on my dagger. I’ll not let them take Bria or me alive. Better a quick death than a slow agonising one. It’s not the ending I want. Not with my heart broken, and so much still undone. But it’s probably the one I deserve…

  ‘Take them,’ Tantalus growls, and his soldiers sweep forward.

  11 – A Child’s Life

  ‘A man is weak-minded who puts the father to death and leaves the sons alive.’

  —Clement of Alexandria, Miscellanies

  Pisa, Western Peloponnese

  Before the Pisans can reach us, a mass of soldiers break from the trees behind us. To my eternal astonishment and relief they’re screaming, ‘Atreiades! Atreiades!’

  In a moment a wave of Mycenaean warriors surges past us, slamming into the Pisans before they can form a solid defence line. The Mycenaeans smash through their ranks, and a furious melee ensues. I see Agamemnon himself leading the attack, joining in the fray with apparent abandon, hacking at the men of Pisa who are fighting despairingly to protect Tantalus and Clytemnestra. The two barbarians from the north, Elephenor and Patroclus, are with Agamemnon, and whatever else I might think they are, they can fight like whirlwinds – their longer swords bludgeon down the men before them, slaying the best of Tantalus’s theioi, all the while whooping as if this is some great game.

  The remaining men charge right round to the cliff edge to hem the Pisans in and prevent their escape. A handful of Mycenaean archers start firing across the stream, and I see one of the Pisan huntresses go down, leaving one survivor who is forced to run.

  I’m so amazed, I almost collapse with relief.

  Telmius hobbles out from beneath the trees, his bald head gleaming and his beard dripping sweat. He goes to Bria’s prone form and wraps his arms around her, while I clench and unclench my fist.

  ‘Where have you fucking been?’ I grate.

  ‘That confounded idiot Amolus brought them out through the wrong gate,’ the satyr retorts. ‘It took me an age to find them and bring them down here.’

  ‘Where is that hairy-legged koprologos?’ I swear. ‘He just about cost us all our lives!’

  Telmius gives me a wry smile. ‘I don’t imagine he’s hanging round anywhere nearby.’

  Which makes him a convenient scapegoat… Not that I have enough of a sense of humour at the moment to share the joke with Telmius.

  ‘What happened to my Bria?’ Telmius adds, stroking her temple.

  ‘She took on Athena’s spirit,’ I tell him. ‘To kill Atalanta.’

  Telmius’s eyes widen as he sees the impaled corpse over by the tree, and he hangs his head in sorrow. ‘For many years there’s been great friendship between Hermes and Artemis,’ he says. ‘I had huge respect for Atalanta. The great feud of the Atreiades and the Thyestiades claims yet more of our best.’

  ‘That’s the truth,’ I sigh.

  Please, all you gods, let it end today…

  We look up, as a cry goes up for a truce. The Mycenaeans draw off, leaving a small group of Pisans clustered around Tantalus and Clytemnestra. Agamemnon confronts the Pisan king, panting hard, sword bloodied. ‘Surrender, cousin,’ he calls.

  Elephenor and Patroclus join him. ‘Let me take the head of this craven king,’ Patroclus demands.

  ‘Come here and say that,’ a Pisan guarding Tantalus snarls.

  The northerner idly points a finger at the warrior, marking him. ‘That one’s mine,’ he drawls.

  I leave Bria to Telmius and edge forward, even though I’m almost out on my feet. This moment could mark the end of the feud that’s weakened Achaea so badly. Tantalus may well have more men coming – this truce is presumably to buy time. But with luck, they’re still miles away; at any rate, I can’t see any sign of them from here. My plan has worked, after a fashion, and this will be its bloody culmination. I need to see it.

  It will also tell me much about what kind of king Agamemnon purposes to be, once his reign is unchallenged.

  The High King pats Patroclus’s arm and a few words pass between them. Then Agamemnon raises his voice again to address us all, in that pompous, entitled tone he so often adopts. ‘It is my place, my duty, to end this matter.’ He turns back to the Pisan king. ‘Tantalus, we are honourable men. You and I shall fight to the death. Let the victor be the undisputed ruler of Achaea.’

  I am stunned. Agamemnon would risk this, on a fight already won? When Tantalus is a theios renowned throughout Achaea for his warrior skills, and Agamemnon is not a theios at all, whatever training regime he’s put himself through…

  I can understand it a little: if Agamemnon makes a grand gesture now, he’ll not just end this fight but remove all doubt about his right to claim the High Kingship. An execution would always taint his victory. He may feel he needs this to secure his reign, once and for all – and give the tale-singers something for the ages…

  Everyone falls silent as they take this in, then Tantalus replies. ‘Your offer is accepted,’ he calls out.

  Poor Clytemnestra makes a sobbing sound. ‘Please, High King, I beg you!’ she calls out to Agamemnon. ‘We’ve done nothing wrong! I love my husband, and went to him willingly!’ She holds her baby aloft. ‘This is my father’s grandchild! Have mercy on us!’

  Agamemnon doesn’t deign to reply. ‘Help me prepare, my friend,’ he says, clapping Patroclus on the shoulders. The two men turn and vanish into the trees, along with the High King’s keryx.

  Tantalus hushes his wife. I’m sure he believes that, other than through victory in the coming duel, he’ll never be allowed to leave this place alive. Perhaps he even doubts that. Even so, he seems to be treating the offer as genuine.

  I check on Telmius and Bria – she’s still unconscious. Laas and Diomedes join us, stunned still over the suddenness of our rescue, and demanding answers of the satyr, leaving me to gather my thoughts.

  If Agamemnon dies here, he’s leaving Achaea wide open to the Trojans. And Tantalus will kill Menelaus, along with a lot of other people I care about… Including me…

  It’s not long before Agamemnon emerges from the trees again, with just his keryx, Talthybius. He’s fully harnessed for war, his plumed helmet with its broad cheek and nose guards over his dusty, stubble-crusted and blood-smeared face. A clear circle has been created by hauling aside the bodies of the fallen, and Tantalus’s men fan out round one side, with their backs to the cliff, with the Mycenaeans facing them on the other. Talthybius reminds us all of the rules of the duel – they are starkly simple: no other man may aid or hinder either fighter; and both combatants must fight with honour. Tantalus invokes Artemis and Hermes, but Agamemnon says nothing.

  They close, armed with shields and xiphos only, eschewing the traditional javelin throws that usually begin such a combat, for neither man has one with him.

  Tantalus is a very big man indeed, a theios and taller than Agamemnon by half a head, and it’s quickly apparent that he’s a fine swordsman. The Mycenaeans groan as their king is driven back and back, blades crashing together. Always Tantalus comes off better, each time calling out an invocation to his patron gods, Hermes and Artemis, as he evades Agamemnon’s blows. He clearly senses victory.
>
  So much for all Agamemnon’s training sessions with Elephenor and Patroclus before we set out from Mycenae. I hold my breath as I recognise the same, slightly clumsy footwork, the same over-exertion, the same, small miscalculations…

  The end comes suddenly – Tantalus delivers a series of thrashing blows at Agamemnon, and follows it with a thrust that catches the side of the High King’s helm. Agamemnon staggers, and Tantalus lunges…

  …and incredibly, Agamemnon arches his spine away, lets the blade scrape past him, the bronze rasping across the surface of his breastplate; but Tantalus has opened himself up and the High King slams his shield rim across his foe’s face, breaking the Pisan’s nose, making him stagger back.

  And then, with an immaculate pirouette, Agamemnon drives his sword through Tantalus’s chest.

  The Pisan men moan – but Clytemnestra screams, falling to her knees as her husband collapses. The man supposedly warding her lets her go, and she scrambles towards her fallen husband. But before she can reach him, Elephenor grabs her, the barbarian wrapping a brawny arm round her throat, ripping the infant from her grasp and hurling her to the ground. The shrieks of mother and child fill the air.

  Agamemnon wrenches out his blade, raises his fist in triumph – and then simply strides away, back into the forest. I stare, as his keryx, Talthybius, steps in front of those going to congratulate him, telling them to let him be.

  ‘He goes to give thanks to the gods,’ Talthybius says loudly. ‘He will return soon.’

  Possible, plausible even. Yet a foul suspicion fills my mind.

  No one’s paying me any attention, so I drift over to the trees then dart into their shadows, flitting deeper into the woods. I hear voices ahead, and let the sounds guide me as I move with all my well-practised stealth. In a few moments I’m behind a fallen log, with a view across a small clearing.

  Patroclus is already half-stripped out of the king’s armour, and handing what he’s removed to Agamemnon. They’re so close in build – tall, broad-shouldered – that Agamemnon’s gear has clad him as though made to fit. They’re both laughing and backslapping, as the northerner helps re-arm the King. I am stunned at the temerity of it; but also not really surprised at all.

  I’ve just seen the king that Agamemnon purposes to be: devious, ruthless and unscrupulous.

  I rejoin the fighting men just in time to see Agamemnon re-emerge from the woods, bareheaded and with his face freshly washed. He takes the acclaim of his men and no one seems any the wiser.

  Clytemnestra is on her knees now, begging Elephenor for her baby, but he’s taunting her, clearly enjoying her distress. I tap Diomedes on the shoulder and we shoulder our way through the press around them. I scoop Clytemnestra up, and confront Elephenor.

  ‘Give her the child,’ I tell him.

  The northerner’s ugly visage contorts in contempt. ‘You don’t tell me what to do, runt,’ he snarls, holding the baby high in the air. Diomedes goes to grab at the boy, and in a blur of motion the Boeotian flashes out a dagger and plants it against Diomedes’s throat. We all freeze.

  ‘Heh, heh,’ Elephenor chuckles, weaving the dagger about under Diomedes’s chin. ‘Not so high and mighty now, eh? Perhaps we need another duel, to teach you some manners?’

  ‘Any time,’ Diomedes growls.

  Elephenor waves the wailing baby about, its head snapping back and forth and its limbs thrashing. ‘Great King,’ he calls. ‘Here’s the last of the Thyestiad line. Do you wish me to end it for you?’

  ‘No!’ Clytemnestra screams.

  Agamemnon strides through the gathered throng and brushes Elephenor’s dagger away from Diomedes’s throat.

  ‘There are things that must be done, Prince of Tiryns,’ he tells Diomedes. ‘This feud must end. May the gods grant that you are spared the strife I have endured.’

  Diomedes hasn’t exactly had an easy life either. Strange how everyone always values their own troubles more highly than anyone else’s. And none more so that Agamemnon.

  Agamemnon holds out his hands, and Elephenor drops the infant into his grasp.

  ‘Please, please, kinsman, please,’ Clytemnestra begs.

  Agamemnon turns his back on her, breaks the child’s neck across his knee and lays the lifeless body on the ground before the queen, who collapses in a flood of gut-wrenching tears.

  ‘Barely a meal’s worth,’ Elephenor snickers, pointing to the dead child.

  There’s a collective sucking-in of breath. Perhaps this suagros, this absolute pig of a man, doesn’t know of the slander spread by Tantalus a few years ago, that Agamemnon’s father Atreus killed Thyestes’s other sons, and tricked his brother into eating them?

  But I bet he does.

  I turn and walk away, dangerously close to committing a murder of my own.

  My plan or not, the desired outcome or not, this is hideous. I am left bleakly certain that the gods are watching, and that one day, we will all pay for this. Especially me.

  * * *

  As soon as Tantalus was killed, the remaining Pisans fled for their lives, down the slope and away. A few of the Mycenaeans gave chase, but most of the enemy have escaped. I have no interest in their fate. I’m more concerned now with getting away from the poisonous circle of men around High King Agamemnon. Clytemnestra is being tended by Talthybius, the keryx, in the lee of the trees. She’s cradling the body of her infant son, alternately keening and lapsing into a deathly silence.

  Laas, Diomedes and I make our own camp beside the stream that feeds the waterfall, where Telmius is nursing Bria back to consciousness. I let her know what’s happened and even she, the cold-hearted bitch, is a little appalled.

  ‘I must go to Clytemnestra,’ she says at once. ‘Come on, Ithaca, let’s see what we can do.’ Still pale as a ghost, she limps over to confront Talthybius, who has stepped forward to block our way. ‘Let me see her,’ she tells him. ‘She needs a woman.’

  The keryx hesitates – he’s probably under orders to let no one near the queen – but he clearly also has no idea how to look after her, and the dead child obviously scares him.

  ‘Not you,’ he tells me.

  ‘He knew her as a child,’ Bria snaps. ‘Piss off and let us handle this.’

  Faced with her burnished glare, Talthybius backs off.

  I busy myself with practical matters –making sure Nestra has enough cloaks and blankets, fresh water and what little privacy we can muster; Bria does the talking, a low and continuous stream of soothing words and sounds. I don’t catch all she says, as I come and go, but I do hear her repeating, ‘Women are always stronger than men,’ over and over again. ‘We bend when they break, and we’ll outlast them, I promise you.’

  When the queen finally manages to speak, it’s largely in broken, incoherent sentences, as if her brain can’t deal with all she’s seen; she leaps from thought to thought unchecked, leaving her tongue to muddle on. ‘My dark magician… How could they?… The foul bastards… Poor, poor, sweet baby… Why are the gods so cruel?… Father would never let… Why isn’t love enough…?’ Eventually she falls asleep, her dead child in her arms.

  I’ve been feeling completely useless, but suddenly I have the germ of an idea. I get up and walk a short distance away, beckoning to Bria to follow me, dropping my voice to a whisper, as I explain what I’m thinking.

  At first she’s cautious, but when I share all that I recently learnt from Laas, she gives me a terse smile and grips my arm in silent encouragement.

  It might be workable… Something good might still come of this ghastly mess.

  I leave her to return to Nestra and take my unwelcome self to the king’s fire, where he sits with Elephenor and Patroclus, Talthybius hovering at his shoulder. Agamemnon frowns at my approach, but when Talthybius whispers in his ear, he signs for his guards to let me approach.

  ‘Prince Odysseus, kindly join us,’ he says coolly.

  ‘Feeling better now?’ Elephenor sneers.

  ‘Had a little puke and a cry?’ Pa
troclus snickers.

  ‘The day I take pleasure in the death of an innocent child is the day I am no longer a man, but an animal,’ I reply, looking not at the two barbarians, but Agamemnon.

  Elephenor rises angrily, but the High King gestures for him to sit.

  ‘I took no pleasure in it, either,’ Agamemnon says. ‘But if that black deed ends this ruinous feud, then I will account for it without remorse or shame before the Judges in Erebus, when my time comes.’

  Interesting. It seems that appealing to Agamemnon’s higher qualities can work – he wants to be seen as better than everyone else, even if his ruse over the duel proves that he’s unwilling to risk himself in doing so. To him, victory justifies all.

  ‘Your scheme worked, Odysseus,’ he says, amiably enough. ‘You always were clever.’ He doesn’t really mean it as a compliment, but I pretend he does. Cleverness is unmanly, to most men’s eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, forcing a courtly smile. ‘What do you purpose to do with Clytemnestra?’

  ‘The prophecy you recited, from Dodona – that second-to-last stanza especially – still intrigues me,’ he replies. ‘“Golden eggs of the cuckold, caged birds born to sing together. Possess the twain and rule”. Clearly Tyndareus’s daughters are the “eggs of the cuckold”. Born to sing together, you say, and I concur. Tyndareus and I have the largest, most powerful armies in the Peloponnese. It is time we formalised our alliance, through my marriage to Clytemnestra.’

  I really have to school my face to not show my outrage, and I’m relieved when I find I’m able to respond evenly. ‘Great King, I commend the intention, but you slew her husband and son before her eyes. Every time you touch her, she will smell the blood on your hands. For her sake, ask for Helen instead. Let Clytemnestra find peace.’